


Picturesque

by Caledfwlch (orphan_account)



Series: (i dont kiss) lizards [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Mentions of Underage Alcohol Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caledfwlch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the full letter alexander wrote to john in chapter 9 of "Stars, Hide Your Fires"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picturesque

**Author's Note:**

> kept this single-spaced in the true aham spirit. almost all errors left in intentionally
> 
> have fun

Dearest John,

It occurred to me that you may have not fully understood my texts, and that, I can hardly find you at fault for. They were rather incoherent, I admit, and I apologize. However, I would like to explain myself in full, and have decided that this should communicate to you best what I meant to convey prior to this day, over the weekend after the events at the party.  
In order to ensure that you understand the meaning of this letter with full context and comprehension and all the feeling behind it, I should first reiterate what occurred at the party itself, as I believe you may have been in too far an inebriated state to fully or even partially recall its events now, when you are much clearer of mind and body, or that you may wish to deny the events that transpired out of embarrassment or another such feeling. Regarding, again, your inebriated state this Saturday, it does not escape me that your actions may bring shame to you now. I cannot tell whether you would have taken the actions that you did had you been in a somberer state, or whether you would have desired to.  
Desire is a funny thing, isn’t it, John? I have contemplated this motivation for such a time now that I thought I knew what it meant. I thought I understood what desire meant and what it meant to me and what it must mean to others. Understand that I thought my desires were different from yours— they still may be, but if you reciprocate mine in the slightest, in a tenth of what I do— in a hundredth— I will be the happiest person alive, to whom no one can compete. I assure you that with my whole heart.  
If we now may recall the events of the party, in order of chronology: I arrived at your house on the evening of the thirteenth of February, at which point you were already mildly inebriated, and you patted my shoulder and asked if I wanted anything, to which I replied “no” or another utterance with meaning to the same degree (though understand, I only expected you to mean alcoholic drinks— had you implied other objects, keep in mind that my answer may have been radically different, depending on the object of your suggestion), so you took my arm and led me to various positions in the house, until we eventually resulted in sitting beside Hercules Mulligan and LaFayette (whose full name I dare not spell out, to save both of us the time and tedium, since time _is of the essence_ , especially in this discourse), the former of which proceeded to, as it were, “rip V-day a new one, bros, ‘cause this holiday sucks my dick” (I quote; I do enjoy Hercules’ eloquence when he drinks beer) (to which then LaFayette replied that their dick was bigger and better-looking, to which you remarked “why the fuck” and then trailed off as you had drank a fair deal of vodka in-between my arrival and this conversation— but I digress), and then Peggy Schuyler walked in, also seeming in quite a state of drunkenness and announced very plainly that xe planned to have an orgy at some point before xyr death and you replied with something like “not a good idea” and I, if you recall, began to feel slightly unwell, most likely from all the laughing I had recently done, and took leave for most of an hour; what involved you between then and next time I saw you I cannot know as of now, but when I met you again, you were extremely drunk, to the degree that you didn’t seem to understand what I was saying; you wanted to go to your room to check on Phillip, who I believe was doing as well as he ever does, though I was far more focused on you than our reptilian friend; then, you led me to your bed, and we both sat down; and then you kissed me.  
I’m not sure if you knew what you were doing, as you fell asleep only a moment after. I stayed beside you, as you had expressed wishes for me to do so. I don’t think I could have left even had you not. I’m not sure that you know what you do to me at all— in fact, I am sure that you do not. You cannot begin to comprehend the way you make me feel, on every inch of my skin, in every bone and every ligament. I don’t think you understand quite what you have done to me in stealing my heart and then stealing my lips in such a manner. It is a thievery, nonetheless, that I can do nothing to but encourage, with all the passion that a human heart can feel, and more. I don’t believe I’ve felt quite as intensely or deeply for anyone in my life, not previous to my residence nor here. I mentioned to you before my attachment to another boy in my previous hometown, as I’m sure you remember. I have had such attachments for others, as well, of every kind you can imagine— but none of them hold a candle to you, John Laurens. I am entirely yours, in every conceivable way.  
Thus, seeing as I belong to you now and there’s hardly anything either of us can do about that, if you wish me to not speak to you anymore after these events, I understand, and I will obey. If you meant to communicate to me this through the absence of a reply this Sunday, I will respect that and keep my distance, no matter how it may hurt. I would much rather that pain fall on me than on you, who deserves no such experience. I do, however, hope that you will return my feelings in kind, and should the gods of luck favor me in the more whimsical of their capricious moods, you should continue your actions at the party in the future, though preferably with a little less vodka involved on your part and substantially less people nearby. Your actions, while surprising to me, were not unwelcome in the slightest. I want you to know that quite clearly.  
I’ve been unable to think of anything else all day. I remember it in exquisite detail, the way your lips touched mine, slow at first, then deeper, a little messy (but I didn’t mind that), unbearably warm, and the way you tasted. You didn’t have to stop so soon. I realized I’ve waited for that moment since the day we met, the desire only strengthening with time. I suppose I should feel shame, as I do not consider myself a man who waits for anything, but these have been precious months. Regrets, my dear, are far from my mind. All the time I’ve spent with you is bliss, and every moment away, torture. I wish nothing but to fall into your arms again.  
Pardon me if this seems too forward, but I can’t control the way I feel, and nor can anyone. I should only hope that you afford me as much indulgence as you would anyone. I am only human, after all, and you are very beautiful. I picture you scoffing in reaction to this statement now, so I will proceed to describe everything beautiful about you, so that you may believe my sincerity in that and all other statements.  
To begin, your hair. It is clear that you keep up a healthy regimen, and I would expect nothing less of a man of your quality. Thus, your hair is even more beautiful that it naturally need be, which is unprecedented but nonetheless the case. I have noticed that it smells rather pleasant, moreso than expected from most boys, which makes me wonder whether you take pains to make it so or whether you exude a natural aroma from your hair particularly. I have spent many a night pondering this question, so I suppose now is a better time to inquire than any! On the rare but treasured moments I have had chance to touch your hair, or have it brush my cheek, it has been extraordinarily soft, pleasantness only added by the frizziness around the edges of your ponytail.  
On the subject of your ponytail, it is impossible not to digress, for I am convinced you can do anything with your hair and achieve greater levels of handsomeness at every moment. Your hair is, of course, usually tied back in one tail, which exposes the definition of your neck, jawline, and cheekbones, all which are very well-crafted, as well as your ears, which are, if you will pardon me, endearing. Anyone should be so blessed as to kiss your ears. Your other features deserve just as much merit, but I will address that subject a little later.  
On the other hand, on the less-frequent occasions I have seen you with your hair down are just as entrancing. In this fashion, one can truly observe the beauty of your hair, how your curls fall just so about your eyes and how thick and dark your hair is. It also softens the features of your face when down, so as to make you look a little more at peace. You look almost angelic this way. I strongly suggest you do it more often, or I will have to start imposing a tax on every other week it does not come down. No one would enjoy this! “Why is Alexander so distraught?” they will ask, and LaFayette will have to inform them of your deprivation to us all for not letting down your hair every so often, for this is, after all, for the national benefit. I wouldn’t dare to neglect the duty I feel in this regard. You should take care not to do it too often, however; for I also imagine quiet often how it might feel to brush your hair from your eyes or thread my hands through it to expose your face and drawing you near, perhaps after peeking an opening if it had fallen into a curtain, and this is far too distracting to me and simply will not do. Besides, your face deserves its limelight too, which brings me to my next topics.  
Your eyes, firstly, merit an entire series of essays possibly spanning quite a few books, but I will attempt for your sake to keep this consolidated. They are such a striking shade of hazel that my breath catches to think of it. They are like works of art. When the light catches them, one can observe pools of green and sparks of gold instilled in them, which I suppose is appropriate— you are so full of fire, after all. Your eyelashes also catch the light quite tremendously. I’ve seen you flicker your eyes away only for the light to catch your eyelashes instead, which are quite dark and just as artistic. Your eyes themselves are marvelously expressive, as you have shown, which I assuredly place in high esteem. They droop in a sweet way that makes you appear relaxed to most, but when you feel passionately, your eyes are the first characteristics to show it. They dart about, they widen, they roll; I could watch you all day, whether delighted or angry or even drunk. They are beautiful through all those things, only accentuated by your eyebrows, which are thick and dark and expressive beyond belief. Then, again, your hair dangles in front of all of this, creating quite a picturesque image for any humble viewer.  
This would already be cruel enough without your nose and mouth behaving as they do. Your nose is the perfect slope, curving just so in a manner that complements the rest of your face. Your mouth is superb, especially when you’re smiling. It is quite delightful to begin with, full and wide, though never still, as if you always have something waiting behind closed lips. I know you are an opinionated man, and I admire that: the way your tongue flits over them or you draw the lower one into your teeth when you’re contemplating something. What is even more exquisite is your array of smiles. You have many, but I think my favorite is the one where you try not to smile at first. They draw in while your eyebrows raise up, and then you suck in your cheek in a pronounced manner; next, the flickers of it begin to show in twitches at the edges. At last, it spreads like melting butter across your face until I can see your teeth, at which point it usually falls open and nearly splits your face in two (a cruel thought, but I suppose the perpetrator is forgivable), and your laugh erupts from your throat like you’ve been holding it back for years. I don’t know why you would hold back your laugh or your smiles. I love them when they’re slow, yes, but I love them as well when they’re easy. I love it when you look me in the eye when you do it, though those moments are often fleeting. I think about them for weeks afterwords, and they keep me warm in this wretched weather. You are much warmer and more worthy than all the rest of this, even if we are in New York.  
I feel I find something admirable in you that is new every day. Your incredible bravery astounds me, and bravery it is to live in the house you do and come to this school and retain your integrity. You’re intelligent, the way you go about it: I see you restraining yourself when you know you have something to say, and when you do say it, G-d— you are so intelligent. Smarter, perhaps, in maintaining your thoughts to yourself, for I would hate to see you get in any more trouble than necessary, but this makes it all the more enticing to know when you will express yourself, knowing too, how hard you work, even when you don’t want people to recognize that. Your dedication to your passions inspires me greatly. I see you think even more than you talk, where I am afraid I sometimes talk more than I think, and John Laurens, I could watch you think all day. I could watch you talk all day.  
More than that, you are so kind, incredibly so, to the degree that it confuses me at times. Maybe you won’t praise yourself, but few would befriend me, genuinely, when I arrived, and offer to me to visit them and even to see them on so regular a basis. It still surprises me. Every moment with you is something to dearly cherish, and I do so desperately, for I don’t want this to slip away, as I pray you understand. I have seen you angry and I have seen you soft and I love both of those renditions of a timeless classic. The way you treat Hercules and LaFayette and even Phillip, I admire; I can see the softness in those eyes of yours; your entire manner shifts and gentles to accommodate their needs. When that softness shifts towards me, I don’t know what to do, as you have awarded me so much in so little time and I can hardly sabotage that by rushing into your arms as I long to— but I do long to, I do, I want to know how soft or fast you’d kiss me, if given the chance. How do you make people fall in love with you so? You are so loved.  
I suppose that what I’m saying is that you make everything warmer, and when I’m around you, I can’t feel the cold. It blows right around me, but the snow can’t touch me. I can’t feel it, and I can’t feel the heat of the summer months without you coming to mind. I am absorbed in you, to the degree that it hurts at times. It’s not a feeling I ever want to lose. I would rather die than spend those months away, from you, John. I’d rather leave than be here and not be able to touch you when you’re near or hear your voice in my mind nightly when I think of you. I sleep better knowing that there are people like you in this world: so smart and incredibly kind, so just and sweet and passionate. I love your every mark, your every freckle, I love every time you’ve yelled out of turn and the jokes you make and your long fingers.  
What I’m trying to say is that I love you. I don’t know why I didn’t say that earlier. I love you, I love you, I love you. John, I will do everything in my power to make you know that. You matter more to me than the shit I’ve seen before, and all the stars in the sky. They are nothing near the worth of your freckles. I said I knew what desire was now, but I’ve hardly learned it, for it seems I find a new one every day: to hold your hand— to fall asleep beside you— to kiss you for hours— to kiss your cheeks and forehead and neck. I’d kiss all the bad out of your house and you’d kiss all the bad out of me, I guess, if you can. And I want to call you my boyfriend. I’d like that very much, to call you my boyfriend and have you call me, yours. It would happen like so: we’d go to a fancy restaurant and I’d pay for the meal and call you my boyfriend, John Laurens, my boyfriend whom I love and adore and for whom I would buy everything he wanted if I could.  
I can’t do that right now, as you know, but one day, I promise I will. I can make as much as we both need and more and we can settle somewhere, or not settle at all, if that’s what you prefer; you seem the restless, adventurous type to me. We can travel the world together, if that’s what you want. I do hope we end up back here, though. I met you here, so it is a sanctified place. I wouldn’t trust its people in my absence to retain every detail as it is now, and every detail must be in place, for you understand, everything here reminds me of you, and that’s why it is good, and that’s why I never feel alone anymore. Though in some cases, I suppose, I feel more lonely than ever, knowing that I can’t see you in that moment, these moments, and hear what you have to say in response.  
What have you say to this, my love? I await your response, so please respond in whatever manner most expedient. I’ve put a good deal of time into this, and I hope it’s paid off. I’ve never been called much of a poet, but I hope you’ll forgive that. I hope you’ll forgive me if this is too forward, or too much. It seems lately that everything is at once too much and too little, so I apologize; this felt too big a thing to squash down into a small space and keep quiet. That is not among my talents.  
Regardless of your response, I won’t resent you. To simply have known you is greater a blessing than any, but I hope you will recall your actions and think on them with great care. I remind you that I love you, and remain, yours,

Alex


End file.
